


Smoke Gets in your Eyes

by weepingnaiad



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, RED (2010)
Genre: Angst, Hallucinations, Happy Ending, Hawkeye has issues, Hurt/Comfort, Loki's still a little shit, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-05 23:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the h-c bingo prompt <i>hallucinations.</i>  Clint sees Trickshot, actually Barney Barton, his brother, kill Phil Coulson and Clint reverts to old habits, running away to lick his wounds.  When Natasha is sent to find him, he learns just how wrong he is about <i>everything.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke Gets in your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> **Content Advisory:** presumed character death, passing thought of suicide  
>  **Beta:** Thanks to all my betas: jlh, for setting me on the right path, sangueuk’s comments and Brit picking, hitlikehammers’s words of encouragement giving me the impetus to finish, and, of course, abigail89, without whom I cannot function.  
>  **Disclaimer:** These are Marvel and Whedon’s characters used in the spirit of transformative works. I promise to return them with smiles on.  
>  **A/N:** This is my first Avengers fic. I started it before seeing the movie and it resides in some mash-up of post movie -- without that particular event that I am in denial about -- and The Avengers: Earth’s Mightiest Heroes ‘verse. So there are no movie spoilers even if it might seem that there could be.

The smoke obscuring the street parts as Thor swings his hammer, giving Clint an unobstructed view of the chaos below him. Trickshot -- Barney, once his brother -- is standing on the back of one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicles. Clint sights an arrow, but before he can release it, Barney has leapt away, firing at the suited figure kneeling behind the van as he flees.

The scene unfolds in slow motion. One minute Phil crouches, his gun tracking Barney, then the next there’s an explosion when Barney’s arrow hits its target: Phil’s chest. With rubble and a S.H.I.E.L.D. van flying, Clint leaps from his perch, screaming as he fires again and again after Trickshot. He hits the ground running, dodging enemy fire and scattering agents in black as he sprints, his own target and Steve’s plan forgotten in his desperation to reach Phil even though he knows it’s too late. Another explosion tosses him forward, throwing him to his knees. There’s a loud ringing in his ears as his eyes settle on part of a black suit fluttering above the flames.

Clint jerks awake, his shattered cries rattling the warped boards he’s leaning against. Gasping, he drops his head back against the wall and breathes through the terror. Swallowing, he scrubs at dry eyes.

The old treehouse is missing most of its floorboards, more holes than shingles overhead, but the tree grips onto the forlorn building tightly, holding the uprights in bare branches as though pressing a baby to its breast, clinging to a disintegrating past, like Clint holds onto a now-impossible dream. He perches in a corner, eyes unseeing as he gazes through the little window into the distance. There are too few trees surrounding the oak, the sparse fields losing out to suburbia, the lone farm long fallen to fire and vandals.

It shouldn’t matter, that this sole reminder of who he was will join the rest of the mold and rot on the forest ground. There's no one left to care who Clinton Francis Barton is nor where he came from. And Clint himself doesn’t care anymore, either. He’s too numb, burned out: a shell of what he was. He’d left this place gladly, but something had always compelled him to return—his soul seeking, searching for safety, security. In the end, he’d found it, far from here, halfway around the world. In the person of one unflappable Philip Coulson.

From their first meeting, the broken pieces of him weren’t so jagged and brittle anymore. Such a seeming little thing, calm acceptance and easy understanding, but it’d worked wonders in healing, had brought Clint so far. And now the familiar ache has returned, eating at him, reminding him that he’s back to square one. Lost again. And this time there’ll be no one to find him.

He hears the snap of twigs, the rustle of leaves nearby showing him just how far he’s already fallen. Taking a deep breath, he listens carefully, knows who has found him. It doesn’t matter that it’s Natasha. He has his revolver out, aims it at her heart before she’s standing fully upright in the treehouse.

Part of him thinks that this isn’t fair to her. That part has a rather dry voice, too calm and collected, and he swallows. His conscience shouldn't sound like _him_. That's just cruel.

Clint tries to muster some emotion, a bit of sympathy, something besides this creeping numbness. Natasha’s lost someone, too. But her eyes aren’t bleak. She’s not red-eyed, raw, wrecked. He's seen her broken and this isn't that. If for no other reason than her slight smile, he should shoot. No one deserves to be forgotten so quickly, especially not…

“Clint, don’t be a dick. You won’t shoot me.”

“It’d serve you right. You broadcast your presence, stomping through the trees like the Hulk.”

She rolls her eyes, her impenetrable gaze settling to bore holes in him. “ _You’re_ the Birdman. This is not my natural habitat.”

“Why’re you here then?”

“I didn’t climb this tree just to shoot you. Though you do tempt me,” she says, slowly, as her lips curl up in a tiny, terrifying smile. “I’m bringing you in. Why else would I be here?”

“Well, I know it’s damn sure not because you missed me,” he snorts. “I think you’re a vengeful bitch and with Ph—” he pauses, “with _him_ gone, you thought you could finally get your pound of flesh.”

It’s an asshole thing to say. He has no right to bring up _The Incident_. He’s pushing her, goading; and he still hasn’t dropped his weapon, his finger warm on the trigger.

Natasha doesn’t blink, her eyes going cold as her fingers twitch and, quick as that, her drawn gun is leveled right between his eyes. He grimaces. There’s no standoff here. She’s faster, already has the fatal shot sighted, but something keeps her from shooting and that’s not what he wants. Not what he’s been aching for these past five days.

She takes a deep breath, holsters her gun, then shakes her head. “If I hadn’t forgiven you for Irina, you’d never have made it out of Morocco alive, Barton.” Her voice has that stilted rasp, an echo of her accent. She’s frustrated with him and maybe her unconcerned façade is cracking just a bit.

“And if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” she continues. Her face is set in that unreadable mask that is more terrifying than her anger. “The boss ordered me to bring you in. How do you think I found you?”

Clint still hasn’t lowered his gun. He just might have the advantage now, but that’s not a given. Not with Natasha. And now he’s more than a little bit angry. This place isn’t in his file. “Tell Fury--”

“Director Fury doesn’t give a shit about you right now. He’s got bigger problems than an emo archer.”

Her sarcasm should cut, but you only bleed if your heart’s still beating. “Who then? Sitwell? Hill?” he sneers. “I don’t work for _them_.”

“I don’t care what you do, Barton.” She glares at him and she’s angry, but then her eyes soften and she sighs. She tosses him a comm unit. “ _Our_ boss -- his name’s Phil Coulson, unless you’ve forgotten -- is alive. Very much so. _He_ sent me here to this ass end of Iowa for you.”

“What?” he blurts out the single word, surprising himself with the way it pulls at his gut. How is it possible to hurt any worse? But he doesn’t understand why Natasha would be so cruel. “I saw it,” he spits, the words squeezed out as his whole body tightens. He straightens his arm, lifts his sight. Now it’s Clint that has Natasha fatally targeted.

“That’s impossible,” he grinds out. “He fell. If you’re not lying, then why isn’t he here?” Phil swore he’d always come for Clint. And he always has. Nothing has ever kept him away. Not even a fully-manned Hydra base.

Natasha shakes her head. “We all saw something different that day. More of Loki’s _’mischief’,_ but none of it was real. The whole thing was a diversion, a mass hallucination to incapacitate us,” she explains, her eyes briefly sparking with fury. “Which worked a little too well. Phil got roughed up trying to get to you. He’s in no shape to chase after your sorry ass. So I got the job. And I’m in no mood to deal with your shit.”

She points to the comm unit dangling between his fingers. “Use it,” she orders. “I have a ride back. You have two hours to get there. If you don’t show, make your own way home. Or don’t.”

Natasha’s halfway down the tree, when she pauses and looks up, meeting Clint’s bewildered gaze. “And, Barton? If you _ever_ draw on me again, I will shoot you, whether your safety’s on or not.”

~~*~~

Natasha’s gone, leaving Clint alone with his stuttering heart and the comm link he’s twisting between his fingers. With hands too sure and confident, he lifts the unit to his ear, fits it, but doesn’t turn it on. By all rights, his hands should be shaking. His lungs are quaking, his whole body poised on the high wire again, but maybe, just maybe, there’s a net below him.

Maybe this time someone will catch him when he falls.

He takes a slow breath, counts the steady beat of his heart and, finally, when the silence and the need to know are too much, he activates the link and says, “Agent Barton reporting in.”

His voice is calm, too calm, really. It’s missing his usual Hawkeye humor, but he’s not capable of laughter. He’s half-convinced this is some cruel prank. Except he knows Natasha. She wouldn’t do that to him. They love each other; she’s the closest thing to family he’s ever had, but he can’t trust her 100%. That’s just the way they are. Have been from the moment she left him to take the fall, dropping him in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s lap. Into _Coulson’s_ hands.

“Agent Barton,” Phil’s voice is scratchy and low in his ear, but nothing has ever sounded so sweet. “Are you with Agent Romanoff?”

Clint’s shaking his head, his throat has seized up and he’s trying to answer, but his response is little more than a squeak. Somehow, Phil still understands him.

“You left the scene, Barton. While we had active hostiles in the area.” Phil’s as calm as ever, but there’s a pinched quality to his tone and Clint is not imagining the underlying anger. His eyes widen as it all finally sinks in. Phil must have gotten himself injured trying to get to Clint _who wasn’t there_ when the smoke cleared.

Phil continues, his voice deceptively cool throughout the rebuke. “Report to The Avengers when you arrive, then see me. You need to be de-briefed.”

Clint’s unable to answer as the extent of his colossal fuck-up hits him.

“And Barton, if you even _think_ about going after Trickshot before reporting in, I will find you.” Now Clint knows just how much trouble he’s in. And Natasha has nothing on a pissed Phil Coulson. Well, shit. “Coulson out.”

~~*~~

Natasha’s giving him the cold shoulder for the duration of the short flight, making it unbearably long and awkward. He tries to make conversation until Natasha turns to him, silencing him with biting words. “Just stop. I am not ready to forgive you for bailing on us. On Phil,” she pauses, “On _me._ We all have issues, Clint. Yours are no worse than mine, or Phil’s. There’s no excuse, so just strap in and shut up.” 

When she turns back to the controls, Clint swallows and does just that. Unfortunately, it gives him too much time to think. He’d been planning his vengeance, didn’t care what he set fire to in his wake, and it’s hard to let go of all that anger. It still burns and will until he finds his brother, but he locks that fury deep inside.

Luckily for Clint, or not so much when you think about it, the Avengers are as messed up as he is, maybe worse. None of them seem pissed that he ran, except Natasha, but that’s due to something else entirely. Tony gives him hell, of course, but the rest of the team just pats him on the back, greeting him with quiet words, most are curious and wary, but ask no questions. He notices that each of them is still a little bruised around the eyes.

Then Steve arrives and the rest scatter. Clint gets that Steve is a soldier and expects certain things, an order and discipline that Clint gives to nothing but his bow. Steve doesn’t shout. He just talks about the Avengers, about being part of a team, about loyalty and honor. Steve’s disappointment in him cuts worse than he expected it to. Clint’s not a team player, never has been, but, he realizes belatedly, he had been giving it a half-assed go.

And Clint Barton doesn’t do things half-assed.

He finds himself nodding, offering a promise and meaning it. The team matters and, somehow, Clint’s become an important part of it. Maybe he’s not as alone as he thought, but now he’s going to have to re-earn his place. He doesn’t understand what Loki’s goal had been, who can tell with the guy’s twisted sense of humor, but Clint doubts that he’d planned for this outcome. His stunt had forced Clint to open his eyes to the stark truth staring him in the mirror.

Steve smiles, claps him on the shoulder, and then casually states that he has K-P duty in the mansion for the next month. Surprising only himself, Clint doesn’t argue. For once.

~~*~~

Later that day, he arrives at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, but is detained, barely, until Agent Sitwell shows up. Clint doesn’t care for the man, but it’s nothing personal. The guy’s a lifer S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. And Clint doesn’t like him on principle. He doesn’t like any ‘suits’. Except for one. But Phil’s different. He’s never treated Clint as just another tool in the S.H.I.E.L.D. arsenal. From the first, even when Clint was most assuredly guilty of robbery and possibly worse, Agent Coulson had seen him as a person, as more than his skill set. 

As they walk the halls, alarm bells start going off in Clint’s head. They’re heading toward medical. And his stomach drops. If Phil’s still in the hospital, then he hadn’t merely gotten ‘roughed up’. He’d been seriously injured. And it’s all Clint’s fault.

His steps stutter and falter when Sitwell stops in front of an isolation room. The other agent stands by the door, arms crossed over his chest, a disapproving frown on his face. The dislike is mutual.

Clint should be jumping for joy, racing through that door, elated, but he can’t. Clint’s no coward, but this—this takes admitting to himself that he _needs_ someone. Even worse is the realization that this thing with Phil means more and has lasted longer than any relationship Clint’s ever had. He is utterly lost without Phil Coulson and he might have just fucked it all up beyond repair. Clint swallows and glares at Sitwell saying, “You can go now. I _can_ open a door on my own.”

Sitwell just stares at Clint for a bit too long before saying, “Until you have been de-briefed and cleared for duty, you will be escorted at all times.”

“Hold on a sec, buddy. You’re not going in there with me.” Clint protests. He’s not having this conversation with witnesses.

Sitwell’s eyes gleam maliciously for a moment, like he’s contemplating just that exact thing, but then he gives a terse nod. “Very well. You should proceed.”

Like Clint needs his damned permission.

Clint clenches his jaw and pushes through the door. At least the ‘chat’ with Sitwell had forced Clint’s hand, though his steps falter again once he’s in the room and can see Phil. And oh, shit, is this all wrong. Clint’s the one that’s supposed to be stuck in the bed, bitching and whining while Phil sits by and takes care of him as he heals.

With his heart in his throat and wide eyes, he blurts out, “What the fuck happened, Coulson? A building fall on you?”

Phil startles and, from his bleary-eyed expression, it’s obvious Clint woke him. “Shit! Sorry,” he stage whispers, moving closer, eyes tracing every bump, bruise, and laceration. He can’t miss the cast, its rigid plaster swathing Phil from knee to waist. This is so much worse than he’d imagined. His heart leaps into his throat as his stomach tries to churn its way out of his abdomen.

Phil blinks and asks softly, “Water, please?”

Clint’s there in an instant, the cup of water with the bendy straw pressing gently to Phil’s lips. Those lips that Clint can never get enough of. That Clint loves to nibble and lick; that know those places that make Clint weak. Those lips that are drawn into a thin line.

“Sorry,” Phil apologizes, his voice a barely-audible mumble. “Still groggy from the anesthesia.”

Anesthesia?

“Surgery? Seriously, what happened?”

Phil’s eyes droop but slowly open. From their glassy sheen, Clint knows he’s on the good stuff, but he’s a stubborn SOB, implacable, and he stares at Clint who can’t seem to breathe. When the silence lingers, he fidgets, drags a chair close and drops into it. The weight of that stare is heavier than Thor’s hammer and Clint swallows, breaks the moment. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, finally gathering his courage and reaching out, fingers resting on Phil’s bare arm, his skin warm under Clint’s palm.

Phil sighs and his eyes close. “I’m sorry, Barton. Can’t… explain… now…,” he murmurs.

He’s drifted off, unable to fight the drugs any longer, so Clint just sits there, leaning over the edge of the bed, his palm sliding idly over Phil’s bicep. Seeing Phil like this, so small, fragile, and so very human tears at Clint, shreds his insides. He watches over Phil’s sleep and silently vows that whatever happens, whatever he has to do, he’s going to fix this. He _will_ make it right between them.

Clint settles in to wait. The one virtue that Clint Barton has is patience, so he adjusts the chair, fiddles with the lights and the bed until he can watch Phil sleep and keep an eye on the door.

The door opens and Sitwell walks in. Clint looks at him, watches as he straightens, his eyes flicking to Phil before meeting Clint’s glare. He’s a suit, doing his job, but even under the best circumstances he gets on Clint’s last nerve.

“Time’s up, Barton,” he says, as though Clint is going somewhere.

“I don’t think so.”

“That wasn’t a request.” Sitwell is calm, but he’s no Phil Coulson. He backs up a half-step when Clint stands.

“I’m not leaving.”

The door opens and two more agents come in, guns drawn. They’re followed by Agent Maria Hill. Clint sneers. He likes Hill less than Sitwell.

“But you are, Barton. Your choice if you do it standing up or not.”

Clint has no weapon and he doesn’t want to risk Phil, so he relents. His eyes turn back to Phil and he swallows the regret, too many things he needs to say.

“Fine, I’m leaving. But, I’ll be back.” He moves to the door, purposefully crowding Sitwell and ignoring the others.

“No,” Hill begins, a fake smile on her lips and blood in her eyes. “You misunderstand. You are being detained.”

“What?”

“You must be de-briefed.” She dares him to argue. “You have been relieved until the agent in charge deems you fit for duty and not a threat.”

There’s something in her expression that makes Clint’s hackles rise. This wouldn’t be the first time S.H.I.E.L.D. was unsure of his status, but he’s never been relieved before. He glances over his shoulder at Phil. “Bullshit! Phil… Agent Coulson,” he corrects, “would never--”

Then her lip curls up and her eyes flash in triumph. “Agent Coulson resigned as your handler and has been relieved as the Avengers liaison. _I_ am the agent in charge, Barton.” She leans forward, closing the space between them until her breath brushes his cheek. “Thank you for that. Fury never would have believed Coulson was compromised without your assistance. Good job.”

Clint’s heart siezes and he lashes out. It’s a dumbshit thing to do. If he’d been thinking clearly he wouldn’t have punched Hill. _’It was worth it.’_ he thinks as he goes down. He does hope that Phil never hears about it, though.

~~*~~

Too many hours later, Clint drags himself out into the early evening air. He winces as the cracked rib reminds him that training is going to be hell for a few days, maybe more if he doesn’t give it time to heal. Scratching at his chin and the stubble that’s nearly a rough beard, he finally notices Thor stepping up to greet him. 

“Well met, Archer.” Thor raises an eyebrow at Clint. “It would appear that S.H.I.E.L.D. was less than gentle with your interrogation.”

“This?” He points to the black eye. “This was from before. I punched Hill,” he shrugs. “Totally worth it,” he adds, then grins, forgetting his split lip. He hisses, but Thor is laughing and has clapped him a little too hard on the back, and _that_ makes him forget the lip.

“The Lady Hill is not well-loved among the Avengers.” He lowers his voice from the normally booming delivery to one approaching normal human decibels. “That tale will go far in restoring your name with our shield brothers and sister.”

“I’m in deep shit, aren’t I?” Clint asks.

Thor’s answer is to simply wrap an arm around Clint’s waist, making Clint gasp, and then they’re flying. “That is a tale to be shared over mead, my friend.”

~~*~~

Clint wakes to a small glass of water, ibuprofen, and a sealed insulated cup. After taking the pain pills, he sniffs gingerly at the green liquid. Recognizing Bruce’s hangover cure, he holds his nose and downs the entire cup. Groaning, he drops to the bed and falls back to sleep. 

The hangover is better when he wakes a second time. He feels nowhere near human, but his brains are no longer playing the marimba on the inside of his skull and his stomach is merely queasy, not trying to claw its way up his throat. The cracked rib makes him swear aloud when he rolls out of bed and he’s feeling every bruise as he stands, but he _is_ standing.

Clint stumbles into the kitchen, thankful for Tony’s extravagant gadgets since he fumbles while making toast. There’s no way he could manage anything more complicated than pushing a button for coffee. He knows it’s late, approaching noon, but there’s no one around and that, more than the dead quiet, is unusual. The Avengers’ home is always bustling, too many individuals with widely differing habits for it to ever stop, not even in the dead of night. But Clint’s utterly alone; even Jarvis doesn’t respond. _’Great. Even the A.I. hates me.’_

Clint sighs as he drops into a chair by the table. He’s not sure he’s ever screwed up this badly before. Or rather, he knows he has, but it’s never mattered quite so much before. He hangs his head and steadfastly thinks of nothing as he drinks his coffee.

Thor doesn’t leave Clint to his misery and the demi-god proves to be surprisingly good company. If they spend the next days bonding over Asgardian mead and shared sibling betrayal, Clint will never speak of it aloud.

His attempts to see Phil are all blocked or aborted. Twice he gets as far as the medical wing only to have Hill herself bar the door to Phil’s room. The last time she stands in wait, her arms crossed, eyes gloating, and a malicious grin curling her lips. She takes great delight in stripping away any and all access he once had. Since he’s joined the ‘freak show’, he’s no longer to be trusted with S.H.I.E.L.D. assets. Clint’s unsure how he feels about that. Being a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent is little more than a job. His home, his sense of purpose, comes from something else: one lone agent.

Clint spends his free time at the range, working til his fingers bleed. If all the targets wear his brother’s face, no one comments on it. Time passes slowly, sometimes painfully so, but gradually Clint is accepted back into the fold. Bruce and Steve are the first to return his tentative smile. Tony’s snark reasserts itself when Clint saves him with a well-timed EMF arrow that shorts out Modok. It is _The Avengers_ and not Hill’s S.H.I.E.L.D. agents that save the world, giving Clint grim satisfaction.

And, finally, Natasha comes around. He knows he’s forgiven when she hacks into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s computers and gets an update on Phil. The accompanying address tightens the band squeezing his heart, but he’s too much of a coward to do anything with it. Of course, Natasha does nothing without a plan, and Clint takes the easy route: avoidance, for as long as it lasts. He only manages thirty-six hours. He’s evaded Natasha for a full ninety-six hours before. He’s off his game.

~~*~~

Natasha goes easy on him, but he still ends up riding in the back of one of Tony’s limos, an agent he doesn’t recognize driving him to upstate New York. To Phil. To Phil’s mom’s place, to be exact. Where Phil is recuperating. From injuries that are Clint’s fault. Oh, and not to mention there’s the whole ‘got booted from his job’ emotional thing probably going on, too. 

Clint’s no coward, but he’s been stuck in his own head over this for a little too long and there’s not a single scenario where he and Phil make it out the other side unchanged. Change isn’t always a bad thing, but Clint can only see an end game where he’s more broken than when he and Phil first met.

Clint tries not to fidget in his seat as the scenery zooms by, his training and his patience failing him. All he can think about, worry over, is the blinding realization (learned when Natasha had him pinned face down on the mat and hissed in his ear, “Idiot! You get your ass over to Coulson’s. I don’t care where you are now or at the end of it, but you make damned sure his last clear memory of you is _not_ of you dying!”) that he doesn’t want this ‘thing’ with Phil to continue as it had been.

He wants more. _Needs_ more.

He thought he’d lost Phil and it felt as though his life was over. But when he’d heard Phil’s voice, knew that he was going to be fine, Clint hadn’t started living again. He’s been in stasis, frozen like Steve, because he honestly doesn’t know if Phil wants the same thing.

They’d been good, had an easy connection -- as stupid as that sounds -- from the first, when Phil apprehended a very concussed, confused, and ultimately betrayed Clint Barton from the dank warehouse where Natasha had dumped his sorry ass. Clint couldn’t resist Phil’s deadpan delivery of straight lines and that, coupled with the careful way he’d examined Clint, won him over faster than the offer of rescue. A fuzzy-headed Clint, seduced by the fine suit and the cool confidence, _might_ have propositioned Phil. That had won him a barely perceptible quirk of Phil’s lips and a slight sparkle in his eyes. He’d always blamed his weakened state, but the reward had been enough to make Clint work long and hard to see that subtle response again and again.

The ‘stalking of Agent Coulson’ started in earnest when Clint was given the choice: join S.H.I.E.L.D or rot in a permanent detention facility. His answer was never in question, especially when Phil was assigned as his handler. Then the fun had begun.

And they would have continued in that same manner, joined at the hip as partners, bordering on unprofessional, but never crossing that final line. Would have if it hadn’t been for the North Korean mission. They were stuck in Hunchun, China with both the North Koreans and the Russians after them, their ride home twenty-two miles away, anchored in the Sea of Japan. The odds hadn’t been in their favor, especially not with Clint once again concussed and starting an infection from a knife wound. The night before they were going to make a run for it, Clint might have been a bit loose-lipped from pain meds, but it was definitely Phil that had initiated the kissing.

They’d lived through it thanks to Phil and, afterward, he’d made good on the promises whispered into Clint’s flushed skin. There’d been no mention of it being a permanent thing; there’d been very little discussion at all. They just continued as they had been with the added bonus of fucking. Lots of fucking. And even now, with all that has happened, he can’t keep the warm flush and bright smile at bay.

It had made sense at the time. Clint didn’t do commitment (didn’t really know what it was) and nothing lasts when you work for S.H.I.E.L.D.

~~*~~

The car is turning off the road, passing through more woods as they wind down what turns out to be a long drive. The Coulson home is basically a manor house on a bluff, Lake George shining in the distance. Clint isn’t sure he can do this. Before he can tell the driver, Agent what’s-his-name, to turn around, the infuriatingly-efficient man is already opening Clint’s door. 

Natasha will flay him alive if he doesn’t do this, so he takes a deep breath, pastes on a cocky grin, and saunters to the door. Before he can knock, it opens to reveal a beautiful, sexy older woman who has blond hair and familiar eyes. Clint racks his brain for any mention of Phil having a sister.

“Hello, you must be Clinton,” she says in soft, formal British vowels, then opens the door wider, beckoning him in.

Well there goes his carefully rehearsed introduction. He tugs nervously at one sleeve of his sweater. It’s Phil’s favorite, soft and blue; matches the charcoal slacks that hug his ass just so. He’d dressed for Phil and really hadn’t planned on meeting _family._ Clint doesn’t know how to do family.

Offering his hand, he answers, “Uh, yeah. Hi.” Her accent throws him and, he blurts out, “I didn’t know Phil had a sister.”

Obviously Clint doesn’t know anything about Phil’s family from the looks of it. His eyes scan the entry, takes in all the wood, from floors and paneling to the railing along the second floor. There’s a library through an open door at his left, a cozy retreat of dark wood, floor to ceiling shelves, and overstuffed burnished leather furniture. All of it screams wealth and old money.

The woman laughs, but it doesn’t ease Clint’s nerves. “Aren’t you sweet. I’m Phil’s mother, dear.” She takes Clint’s arm in hers and they start walking further in.

Clint’s quietly freaking out. At least he didn’t insult Phil’s mom. Yet. “I hope it’s a good time?” he asks, trying to get his equilibrium back. “For a visit, I mean?”

“Of course. I’ve been expecting you.” The hallway is wide and runs through the center of the house. They stop before a sitting room.

Clint glances in, but there’s no one in the room. “Expecting me?” he repeats. This is hard. His normal mode is sarcastic and cynical, which are the last things he can afford to be right now.

“Of course. Natasha phoned to let me know when you’d arrive.”

They’re stepping into a sunny, bright room with a floral sofa and blue chairs. There’s a fire crackling quietly in the fireplace and an open book on the sofa, but no Phil. Clint wants to run. He is rapidly losing his nerve. “You know Tasha?” is all he comes up with.

“I do. She’s such a lovely young woman. She’s been to visit many times, especially recently.” She’s smiling now and all Clint can think about is that Nat’s been here enough to be _known_ while Clint hasn’t been once. He really is an asshole. “Do sit down, Clinton,” she urges, interrupting the shrieking in his head.

He sits. “It’s Clint,” he says. “You can call me Clint.”

She gives him a look that he can’t place, then asks, “Would you like some tea?”

“Don’t go to any trouble for me, Mrs. Coulson. I’m… I’m not exactly a tea drinker.” He settles stiffly next to the arm of the sofa, trying to remember if there is a right way to sit.

“Nonsense, dear. Everyone drinks tea.” She pats his shoulder. “I’ll just be a moment and please, call me Victoria.”

In the short time it takes her to make tea, Clint surveys the room, figures out how to open the windows, catalogues several exits, and slips into the library just to slide his fingers over the spines. He inhales. There’s something about the smell of books and leather. Clint’s always loved to read. Books were his first constant companion. They traveled well and kept him company as the circus moved around. They were home. A shared love of reading was the first thing that he and Phil bonded over.

He’s seated when Mrs. Coulson returns carrying a tray with a porcelain tea pot and cups along with little cakes and sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Clint is so out of his element. He can imagine Natasha sitting here drinking tea and making small talk. Natasha is a chameleon and can become _anyone._ Clint’s skills are more specific and the people he’s comfortable with are far removed from polite society.

“Here we are. How do you take your tea, dear?”

Clint shrugs. “Hot?”

She chuckles, but her gaze is assessing. Clint can tell he’s being sized up, most definitely falling short, as she hands him a cup. “Here, you seem like you’d like it strong and sweet, I think.”

He takes a sip and it’s just tea. “It’s good. Thank you.”

Mrs. Coulson takes a sip of her own tea, then sets the cup back down on the tray. “Do relax, dear. I’m not going to bite your head off. I just thought we could chat a bit. Get to know one another.”

Clint sets his own cup down and rubs the back of his neck. Her tone is so calm and cool, Clint now knows where Phil got that trait from. Still, Clint’s no fool and he knows he’s under the microscope. Poison served with a smile is just as fatal. “I’m sorry. I don’t do small talk and you’ve thrown me. You’re so young. And British!”

“I see why Phil likes you. Even nervous, you’re adorable.” She pats his knee and Clint doesn’t know how to respond. He suspects that none of this is an accident. Mrs. Coulson is the gauntlet he’ll have to run to get to Phil.

Taking a deep breath, he forces himself to relax. He’s good at winging it. He offers a shy smile, one that he knows gets results. “I’m sorry. You have me at a disadvantage here. I suspect Natasha has been talking.”

“Natasha didn’t reveal your secrets, but I have heard all about you over the years. I thought this would be a chance to form my own opinion.”

“Depending on your source, it’s probably all a pack of lies, ma’am.”

“Mother,” Phil interrupts from the doorway. Clint’s heart leaps in his throat and he jerks upright, hastily standing. Phil is in a wheelchair, his right leg still straight in front of him, but the cast holding him immobile is thinner, lighter. All Clint can think is that Phil is never going to be able to haul his wounded ass through enemy territory again.

“Philip, darling!” Mrs. Coulson turns, her smile fond, loving. “I didn’t know you were awake. Come join us. We’re just having some tea.”

Clint’s seen that expression on Phil’s face a thousand times. It’s the one he directs at Clint when he crosses the line, not outright disobedience, but skirting insubordination. There’s a bit of exasperation and a shit ton of fondness on his face and his lips are tilted up in a soft smile that takes Clint’s breath away.

“Mother, we agreed. You can have your turn. After me.” Clint’s not sure if that’s reassuring or not. There might not be anything left of him once Phil is done with him.

“You can’t blame me for trying.” She gives Clint a wink and stands herself. “Shall I leave you to it?”

Phil shakes his head. “Would you please bring us some coffee to the sunroom instead?” Then Phil is wheeling himself away and Clint is left blinking, staring after him stupidly. “Barton!” Phil calls and Clint’s moving before he even realizes it.

The sunroom has floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides and a breathtaking view, but Clint sees nothing except Phil, body broken and eyes flat, their earlier twinkle gone. He stands awkwardly, fighting the need to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness, understanding, anything that Phil will give.

Phil parks by a small table, next to the windows. He’s not looking at Clint and the set of his shoulders telegraphs the emotions he’s concealing. Clint’s good at a few things, none of them interpersonal skills, but he’s always had a sense of _Phil,_ an intuition for most of what Phil is so good at hiding. Clint’s just never been good at taking that knowledge and converting it to actual communication.

“Take a seat, Barton,” he urges, and Clint does. He backtalks Phil all the time, but he can listen when it's important. He’s aware of his choice, thankful that Phil gave him the option not to have the door at his back, but the chair forces him to meet Phil’s gaze and Clint isn’t ready for that. He drops his eyes to the rug beneath their feet.

“Once Mum drops off the tray, we’ll have privacy. We can talk then.”

Clint nods. He’d practiced a speech, rehearsed it backwards and forward. He knows what he’s going to say, but he can’t say it with an audience. Hell, he’s going to have a hard enough time looking at Phil when he says it.

Clint tries to start a conversation, but he sucks at small talk and the elephant in the room is sucking all the oxygen out of the place. He hasn’t even asked about Phil’s leg and already Clint’s praying that a villain interrupts this heart-to-heart.

Luckily, Mrs. Coulson arrives with a tray. The pills are what catch Clint’s eye. He sighs aloud. This is so fucked up. _He’s_ so fucked up. Phil deserves better. Surely _wants_ better after Clint has proven just how much of a self-absorbed dick he is.

Mrs. Coulson presses a palm to Phil’s cheek, a tender gesture that makes Clint ache. Yeah, he’s got trust issues and intimacy issues and a fuckton other issues, not the least of which is the whole abandonment thing, but he knows affection, recognizes love and realizes that he had it. Once. Before he’d run.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re welcome, dear.”

“Thanks,” Phil adds, taking her hand from his face and kissing the back of it.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says. “Shall I close the door?”

“Please,” Phil answers.

And now they’re alone and Phil is looking at him, his expression unguarded. Clint’s voice seizes up, the wounded look in Phil’s eyes wiping away all his carefully rehearsed lines in a flash. Dropping to his knees, he swallows thickly and starts babbling. Clint’s not even sure what he’s saying, but he stops when Phil presses a finger to his lips.

“Clint, stop. Please,” Phil asks. And he shouldn’t have to ask for anything ever again. Not after what’s happened. Then it dawns on Clint: Phil sounds detached, official, professional. Not like Phil, but like Agent Coulson. Like Clint’s handler, not his lover. He shudders. Clint might have run one too many times.

It’s hard to breathe, even harder to think when Phil turns away. Clint’s left staring at his profile, at the perfect lines of his cheekbones and jaw. He can see Phil swallow and Clint’s hands twitch. He needs to touch to _do_ something. “Get off the floor, Barton.”

Of course Phil knows him, anticipates Clint’s moves and thoughts. Licking his lips, Clint just nods. He knows Phil can see him reflected in the glass. He sits, stiff-backed and so damned uncomfortable, knees splayed wide, hands balled into fists between his legs.

“We need to talk.” Phil says the worst four words in the human language. 

Clint nods even as his heart shatters. “I’m sorry, Phil. Your career… I didn’t think…”

Phil turns then, the look in his eyes silencing Clint. “You think being benched is the worst thing that happened to me?” The hurt flares to gray steel in his eyes. He’s pissed and Clint’s unsure what he did this time. “You idiot.”

Phil turns away again without explanation and Clint knows he’s supposed to get this, but he doesn’t. He sucks at talking, at relationships. And Phil damn well _knows_ that.

“I admit that. Nothing new here. But goddammit, Phil! Tell me how to fix it! This. _Us._ ” His hands fly up, reaching. He pulls them back, fights to keep them down. “Please?” he begs, the word rough and low, barely making it past the lump in his throat.

Phil’s head jerks around and his eyes are wet, but he takes a shuddering breath and blinks away the emotion. “Clint.”

“Please don’t,” Clint begs. “I-I can’t do this. Any of this. Not without you. Please, Phil. I’ll figure it out.”

“Stop. Clint. Just stop.”

The words cease, but there’s adrenaline coursing through Clint’s veins. He’s fighting for his life here and he might be patient and controlled, but this is different. He darts up and paces the length of the sunroom, paralleling the windows, eyes unseeing. He always knew Phil would get tired of him. He’s just damned lucky for the years they had. Still hurts worse than all the other betrayals in his life.

“Barton!”

Phil’s voice breaks through the haze and Clint stops mid-stride. He turns, swipes at the tear sliding down his cheek. “What?” he barks back, angry.

“Sit down and listen.”

Clint wants to argue. He’s ready to run. Needs to run, to be alone, to lose himself out there in the dark underbelly of the world, among the people just like him: misfits, outcasts, freaks. People that don’t deserve someone like Phil Coulson.

But he drops into the chair. He never could fight Phil.

“You’re not leaving here. Your ride is gone and this place is locked down tight. So get that idea out of your head.” Phil crosses his arms over his chest, daring Clint to try anything.

It shouldn’t surprise him, but it still does. Sometimes he swears Phil can read his mind. And Phil knows that locking him in, even if it is here in a mansion, on a large plot of land, will drive Clint crazy. But there’s always a method to Phil’s madness and Clint trusts him. His skin is starting to itch, his muscles twitch, but, for Phil, he can try to wait it out.

“I’m no mind reader, but I have gotten good at reading _you._ ” Phil pauses, takes a sip of his by-now cold coffee. He grimaces and sets it back down. He’s stalling. Phil never stalls. He’s straightforward and never beats around the bush. It’s one of the myriad things Clint loves about him.

After taking a deep breath, he sighs. “I saw you die, Barton. And don’t start enumerating all the times you’ve _almost_ died on me. That’s not the point. This time, it was real. Final. And there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.”

“But--”

“No. Just get out of your head for once, Barton.” Phil’s voice is sharp, cutting. “I had no control. Couldn’t even get to you before you fell. I told you that. When we started this I said there was one thing. _One thing_ that would break me. And you fucking go and disappear. Made Loki’s hallucination _real._ ”

Clint’s eyes widen and his mouth goes slack. He is such an idiot.

“I lost it. It’s my fault Hulk dropped a car on me. I was… _am_ compromised. If I can’t remain detached when I’m in the field, I’m no good to anyone. So, getting benched was the right outcome. The problem is what now?”

Clint swallows, meets Phil’s eyes. He’s supposed to come up with an answer, know what to do now, how to make this right, get them back where they belong, but Clint isn’t good at that. He lives in the moment, executes orders, can even plan a few steps ahead, but Phil’s the strategist. He’s the one that’s always known how this should go. If he doesn’t know, then Clint is shit out of luck.

But Phil wants an answer. He’s sitting there, unmoving, too quiet, waiting. On Clint.

Clint’s insides are jelly, shaking and twisting, and he’s so fucking lost that he doesn’t know whether he’s falling or flying, but he reaches out, rests his palm on Phil’s good thigh. The sweats are soft, the body beneath his hand warm. After taking a deep breath, licking his lips, and swallowing, Clint gathers up the nerve to speak. “You heal,” he says, but the words are meaningless unless he can say all of what he means, what he’d rehearsed. “You get strong again, then you march into Fury’s office and get your job back.” His voice grows stronger as the words come, fully formed with strength and conviction. “I won’t work for another handler. The Avengers don’t care for Hill. But none of that is the point.”

Clint drops to one knee, as stupid and cliché as that is. He takes Phil’s hand in his and continues, “The point is that there’s nothing wrong with being compromised when it’s family. And I won’t swear that I won’t fuck up again, but I’d like the chance to do better, to make this right. I want to make this, _us,_ permanent and official. Recognized by Fury and everybody. If you’ll have me?”

Phil looks surprised for once. Clint’s pretty sure that he got the jump on him this time. But he’s not going back. Not now. Not when he’s finally figured out exactly what he wants. Phil Coulson is his foundation. His bedrock. And Clint’s not letting him go.

“Did you just propose to me?” Phil cocks his head, his eyes lighting up. “I must be suffering a flashback because there is no way that you dropped to one knee and proposed.”

Clint laughs, but his only answer is to brush his lips over Phil’s knuckles. He hasn’t straightened, either. His knee is hurting, pressed into the stone floor, but he’s not moving. Not until Phil answers.

“You’re serious?”

Clint raises his chin and gives Phil a long look, straight in the eye. “I asked, didn’t I?”

“You asshole. That’s not what I expected.”

Clint shrugs. “So sue me, Coulson.”

Phil looks away, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. He shakes his head and Clint isn’t happy that he has made the most self-possessed and collected person he’s ever met shake. But there’s a subtle tremble to Phil’s hand. Yeah, Clint had fucked up. Badly. But he’s going to fix it.

“You’re a cheating, lying bastard,” Phil whispers.

“I am. I’m also a coward,” Clint adds, his thumb sliding along the back of Phil’s hand. “A pain in the ass, too. But I need you. I’m not giving up on us. And I won’t let you, either.”

“This isn’t going to turn out well,” Phil answers, but he’s smiling. It’s barely there, but it’s genuine. And fond. Everything Clint could ever want is right there before him.

“That’s what you said about North Korea, too,” he deadpans, in answer. “I think it turned out all right.”

Before Clint can stand and kiss Phil like he’s wanted to for weeks, the door opens and Victoria bustles in with another tray. “Hurry up and kiss then. I’d like grandchildren before I die.” She takes the coffee and leaves lunch, both men spluttering in her wake.

Clint drops into the chair and laughs. What the hell has he gotten himself into?

“So, now that you’ve met my mother…”


End file.
